


Be My Anchor, I'll Be Your Home

by dannyPURO



Series: The Treachery of Memory [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Bahorel misses Feuilly, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Smut, but it's not super explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: He’s got the lingering feeling that he doesn’t remember things as clearly as the rest of them. Grantaire remembers almost everything, he knows, and so does Enjolras, just because of how long it’s been. But even Marius remembers things that Bahorel only has a lingering familiarity with.Bahorel gets flashes. A few faces, sometimes. He’d recognized Enjolras, if only vaguely. A few dreams. Nagging pieces of knowledge he shouldn’t know. Familiarities he shouldn’t have. And Feuilly.He remembers Feuilly.





	Be My Anchor, I'll Be Your Home

Bahorel is glad he found his friends. Really. He is. He loves them all and he was so happy when he found them and he wouldn’t give them up for anything.

None of them are Feuilly, though.

Bahorel remembered Feuilly first, even before he met anyone this time around. He remembered Feuilly and along with him a sudden rush of  _ longing _ , of wanting, of sadness that comes of desiring someone so strongly who you can never have. 

He’s got the lingering feeling that he doesn’t remember things as clearly as the rest of them. Grantaire remembers almost everything, he knows, and so does Enjolras, just because of how long it’s been. But even Marius remembers things that Bahorel only has a lingering familiarity with. 

Bahorel gets flashes. A few faces, sometimes. He’d recognized Enjolras, if only vaguely. A few dreams. Nagging pieces of knowledge he shouldn’t know. Familiarities he shouldn’t have. And Feuilly. 

He remembers Feuilly… well, not perfectly, but well. He remembers his face so clearly, and the fans he used to make, and his tired eyes, and his hands, and his voice. He remembers how much he’d wanted him. He remembers that one time Feuilly had pulled him aside, after a meeting where Bahorel just couldn’t stop staring at him, and told him in a hushed voice that he knows, it’s alright, and he can’t do anything about it but it’s not because he doesn’t want to. He remembers the kiss that Feuilly had bestowed upon him, feather-light and sweet, with sadness eyes, before he’d left that night. 

Bahorel thinks about Feuilly a lot. 

Enjolras calls him, one morning, and tells him in a rush that Grantaire does remember, after all, and he’s found some of the others, and Bahorel hangs up on him and is scrambling out of bed before he can think. Feuilly would be there. Feuilly. Feuilly.

Feuilly isn’t there. Apparently, he’s the only one of les Amis that nobody’s seen yet. So he says hello to Grantaire again, and greets Jehan and Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta and Éponine, and engages in a little bit of conversation, just to be civil, but he doesn’t exactly  _ remember _ much, so after a few minutes, he sits down by the side of the room and keeps to himself. 

He remembers a little bit more over the next few weeks-- being with the others must have helped. He remembers boxing with Grantaire, and they go out and spar a little. He talks with Jehan, and remembers snippets of poetry they must have eloquated in the past. They make a groupchat for everybody. 

It’s nice. It’s fine.

Nobody’s found Feuilly. 

They take to meeting at Jehan and Grantaire’s apartment, up the stairs from a little café. They talk about politics a little bit, and sometimes the meetings will be about rallys that Enjolras is planning, but it’s less cohesive this time around, like there’s no one real cause, and they just need to meet for the comfort of it. Bahorel hardly minds.

It’s so familiar. Enjolras officiating, chairs spread around. Only, there’s an empty space near the front where Feuilly should be, like they keep forgetting they don’t need as many chairs this time around. 

Bahorel knows Enjolras misses the man. From the way he speaks him, they must have been close. 

He doesn’t think anybody cared about him like Bahorel did. Like Bahorel does.

* * *

Summer rolls around, and Paris gets hit with a heat wave that makes Bahorel want to die. Again. Haha.

“Do you think he needs some water?” Jehan asks, from their perch on the kitchen counter. 

Bahorel looks up. They’re pointing out the window at the front patio-- and more specifically, at the man out there, sweaty as anything and young, weeding the little strip of garden, long since overgrown. “Probably.”

They sit together in silence, for a little longer. “So go get him some, then,” Jehan says, flipping a page in their book. 

Bahorel groans. On the other hand, he shouldn’t let the poor man get heat stroke just because Jehan is lazy. He fills a glass with the tap, and adds a few ice cubes, after a moment’s hesitation, and then goes down the stairs. 

The man is shirtless, and freckled, and Bahorel has to clear his throat three times before he turns around, takes out his earbuds, and-

Oh.

The glass in his hand slips from his grasp and shatters on the concrete. He’s got a headache, all of a sudden, but it hardly matters. “Feuilly.” Oh, God, please let him remember. Please let him remember. He’s not as patient as Bossuet, he can’t wait.

Feuilly frowns, strips the garden gloves off his hands, and then freezes. 

He looks up at Bahorel again. “Baz.”

Bahorel can’t breathe. 

“Bahorel.” he drops the gloves on the ground, takes a step forwards. “Bahorel, you-.”

Bahorel would make fun of him for the fact that he can only seem to say his name if he didn’t find himself in an entirely similar position. He nods.

Feuilly reaches a trembling hand out and just barely grazes Bahorel’s jaw with his fingertips. Even that is too much for him to bear. 

Bahorel kisses him. 

He couldn’t help it, really, he couldn’t, because Feuilly is  _ here _ , and he  _ remembers,  _ and he’s totally shirtless and-

And he’s kissing back. Bahorel grapples at his shoulders, reaching for any skin he can get, relishing it all despite the heat. Feuilly grunts, shoves a hand into Bahorel’s back pockets, pulls him close, so they’re pressed together. 

Bahorel wants to stay here forever. He lets Feuilly bite at his lower lip, then move down and suck bruises into his neck, and he’s not even one for hickeys, normally, but he  _ wants  _ them, from Feuilly. He wants to be marked, wants to be  _ Feuilly’s _ , after so long. He groans, and Feuilly breaks away, panting.

“We’re in the street,” Feuilly murmurs, though he still reaches up to rub at one of the new bruises blooming against Bahorel’s skin. “We can’t… we can’t, here, but Bahorel, please, I’ve waited so long, I’ve been- I’ve been so alone, I missed you so much, and you said… or, well, you didn’t say, last time, but… you wanted me, right?”

Bahorel nods, eyes wide. 

“I don’t look so different now, do you… please, I just want you, do you want me? Even just…” He leans forward against Bahorel’s shoulder and almost fucking  _ moans _ . “ _ Please.” _

Bahorel wraps his arms around him, holds him tight and close. “I always want you. I’ve spent months wanting you. Waiting. Ask Enjo, I’ve been insufferable.”

Feuilly pauses at that. “There’s… Enjolras is- there’s others?”

“You’re the last. They’re in the apartment upstairs, we always meet on Sundays.” 

Feuilly’s looking at him with wonder in his eyes. “Everyone?”

“Everyone.” Bahorel steels himself, readies himself to have to wait, now. “Do you want to say hello?”

Feuilly bites his lip. “I do, really, but… do you think they would understand if we did that later?”

Bahorel has to laugh out loud at that. “I don’t live far,” he says, more solemn, then. 

“You mean-”

“I’ve always wanted you.”

Feuilly grabs his hand. “Your place.”

And then Bahorel is almost running, dragging Feuilly behind him and trying to shoot off a text at the same time. (The groupchat gets a message from him that reads  _ found fee wll brng hm bck l8r) _ . They round the corner, scramble up the stairs of the apartment building, and Bahorel finally gets his key in the door, and is shoving it open.

Feuilly kisses him again, pressing him against the door, biting and sucking and fucking  _ groping _ , and oh, God, is this what it would have felt like back then?

He lets out a desperate sob and tangles a hand in Feuilly’s hair and tries to hold on.

In the end, they don’t even make it to the bed. Bahorel comes against Feuilly’s leg when Feuilly shoves his thigh between his, and when he drops to his knees in front of Feuilly, it only takes a few moments, a few strokes, a few adoring sucks, before he’s coming too, and pulling Bahorel up for another kiss.

They collapse on the couch, sprawled atop one another.

“I missed you,” Bahorel says. 

Feuilly closes his eyes. “God, I thought I’d never be able to do that. I thought I’d missed my chance.”

Bahorel shakes his head. “Never. You can have anything.”

“I saw you die at the barricade and I thought I’d missed out on what I wanted most. I kept thinking how it was so stupid that I said no, that night. That I wished I’d done more than kiss you.” He sighs. “Then I came back and I thought I was the only one and I felt so alone and I didn’t understand why anyone would bring me back and not you.”

Bahorel presses a kiss to his forehead. “I am here, though. And everyone else.”

Feuilly opens his eyes again. “I love you.”

That’s too much. Bahorel buries his face in Feuilly’s hair and breathes in deep. “I love you too,” he murmurs. “Always have.”

Feuilly holds him close for a moment, then sits upright suddenly. “You need to take me to see the others. I need to see them.”

It’s only fair, Bahorel supposes. He can’t keep Feuilly to himself. So he changes his pants, and throws Feuilly a shirt, and they walk back to the apartment hand in hand.

* * *

Jehan squeals when they knock on the door. Courfeyrac gets there first, though, and tugs an overwhelmed-looking Feuilly into the apartment. From there, Feuilly is passed around, tugged into hugs and given high fives from all the Amis. Enjolras shakes his hand, beaming, before pulling him into a tight embrace. 

Bossuet remembers more, now, he realizes, now that he’s seeing them all again. He’s got a clearer picture of it all.

Maybe he was just waiting for Feuilly. 

By the time Feuilly makes his way back to Bahorel, Feuilly’s crying. He isn’t the only one.

“Fee?” Bahorel asks, voice soft. “You good, man?”

He nods, curls against Bahorel’s chest. “I’m just happy to be home.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's Feuilly! I just wanted to write a sweet little reunion. 
> 
> I might write some more stuff in this series (namely some sweet little Enjoltaire) but tbh I'm not sure yet. We'll see.


End file.
